I'm considering One-Shot Rehab…
Pseudo Adoration
Hermione Granger trained her eyes on the massive cherry wood grandfather clock in the living room of her flat, its ancient iron hands in sweeping curls ticking by with unbearable slowness. Of course she would rather what was to come didn't happen, didn't have to happen. But, because there was no other choice—or at least no choice that she could feel morally okay with—she would rather the whole ordeal was over with as soon as possible and she could return to life as normal.
Today was not only significant for the task before her, but also because it marked the one year anniversary of the end of the war, a war that had stretched on for an agonizing eight years, four months, and six days. At times the light side had the upper hand, and at times the dark—and when it was the dark, even Hermione found it hard to keep her worries from crushing her. For months at a time she would say nothing unless absolutely necessary, doing her job as assigned throughout the war as if she were the Order's very own puppet. When she crawled out of her self-dug hole of pity and bitterness, the change was immediate and startling to those around her. She still hardly ever smiled, but her conviction was a comforting change from her despair.
At five minutes to nine, Hermione tore her eyes from the clock, settling them instead on a moving picture placed lovingly on the coffee table before her. In the photo was herself, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna, Fred, George, Dean Thomas, Lee Jordan, Seamus, Colin and Dennis Creevey, the Patil twins, Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Hannah Abbott. They were all smiling, all waving enthusiastically at the camera—positioned a little crookedly by Colin Creevey—the midday sun shining warmly on their faces. They all looked so happy, so carefree. The picture had been taken only a day before the war broke out completely, and within the first week both Katie Bell and Seamus had been murdered by Death Eaters.
Hermione picked up the framed pictured, stroking it affectionately, her eyes watering only slightly at the found memory the image held. No one had thought the war would last so long, would tear so many lives and families apart. They had truly been happy—if a bit naïve and whimsical—back then. So young and full of hope.
Dennis lost his brother Colin three years into the war, the same fate befalling Padma Patil only a month later—she took her own life hours after hearing the news. Lee Jordan died fighting a triumphant battle against Fenrir Greyback, who was then killed by none other than Remus Lupin, caving to his animalistic instincts. The former professor hadn't truly been the same since the encounter.
Brothers to the end, Fred and George Weasley had been lost the summer before the end of the war, challenging Bellatrix LeStrange and Antonin Dolohov. They died screaming the words that haunted many a nightmare for Hermione: "Laughter never dies!" Cruelly, both Bellatrix and Dolohov had cackled at their words, finishing them off with the Killing Curse. It was Hermione, raging and fearless, who had taken both their lives only moments later. It had taken all of Harry, Ron, and Ginny's combined strength to pry her off the dead body of Bellatrix, who she continued to beat relentless until her knuckles were blue and cracked with blood.
It was a hard blow to everyone, the loss of both Fred and George in one day. And though immediate revenge had been had, they still sought vengeance. Even Molly Weasley couldn't keep her angry at bay—though her grief far outshined all other emotions—vowing to bring Voldemort to his knees if she had to die trying. Over the course of the next few months after their deaths, the Weasley family suffered two more horrific losses: their father Arthur and Charlie.
The deaths didn't stop there. So many others had met similar fates. And though their deaths ranged from quick and painless to drawn-out and excruciating, they all had one thing in common: they died with courage and passion, their last breaths devoted entirely to their cause and those they loved. And they will all be missed severely.
A sharp knock at the door caught Hermione by the heartstrings. She set the picture back on the coffee table, and called, "I'll be right there." Standing on only slightly unsteady legs, she smoothed down the front of her modest cream-colored dress, checking her make-up and hair in the mirror beside the coat rack by the door before she opened it, suppressing all her former emotions, the memorable picture pushed difficulty from her mind.
He stood, his hair stuck messily to his face, as he'd had to come through a rain storm to get there. She wondered at his lack of umbrella, or charm, to prevent from getting wet, but decided not to ask. He, as always, had a reason for everything and she wasn't curious enough to figure out what it was. All she had to do was get through tonight—and possibly, unfortunately, a few other scattered days afterward—and then it would all be over. Finally. For good.
"Hi," she said, unsure of how else to start this. Nothing, in any book she could have ever gotten her hands on, would have prepared her for this moment. It almost made her wish she were back on the battlefield. At least then she was in familiar territory.
"Yeah," he replied, stepping into her flat without being asked. He pealed off his drenched cloak, hanging the drooping mass of fabric on her coat rack. Next he slipped off his boots, heavy black ones, the standard that had been worn throughout the war. Hermione had burned hers months ago, along with so many other things.
"Tea?" she asked, fingering the navel blue belt of satin around her waist, her gaze fixed on his deep green tie. "I just made a pot."
"Sure." He shrugged and followed her into the kitchen.
Six Months Earlier:
The bustling streets of Diagon Alley were a welcome change from the suffocating wrench of despair that followed Hermione's every step. Clinging to her friends for support—and vice versa—they had become dependant on one another for something close to normalcy. Today was the first day since the end of the war that she had been away from them—Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville and Luna—and it felt so good to just breathe. Not that she didn't want to be with them, didn't need them as badly as they needed her, but sometimes it was simply too hard to look at them and reflect their pain so readily.
She often wondered how good of an idea it had been for them all to live together. For the past few days she had secretly been looking for a new place all her own.
They had all changed so much over the course of the war. Neville was no longer the shy and bashful pushover he once was, sporting an impressive scar across his left cheek from a brush with a Death Eater in the fifth year of the war. He drank heartily, though not too excessively, and dated often, content on remaining single for the time being. Ginny had become even more brash, ever-ready for a fight, anything to distract her from the still-palpable pain of loss. She wore her hair short now, clipped close like a boy's; Harry often confessed to Hermione how much he missed running his fingers through it. Harry himself had changed little, the only troubling thing about him being his absence of happiness over his defeat of Voldemort. The only thing that seemed to keep his smile for more than a few moments was Ginny, and even she could wear on him, causing him to lapse into spells of silence and seclusion. Once, after Ginny had slapped him for bringing up Fred and George at dinner—it was their birthday and he had merely been acknowledging the fact—he'd disappeared from their flat for nearly a week, finally returning with a single white lily for his girlfriend.
Ron and Luna were most definitely the most changed of the group. Ron had cheated death so many times during the war that, by the end, he'd become reckless, suicidal even. For the past six months he'd done nothing but practice spells and curses, devoting himself entirely to bettering his magic in preparation for another war he was certain would come. He shut everyone—even Hermione, who had had a brief romance with him at the beginning of the war—out, ignoring them when they tried to tell him that with Voldemort gone another war in their lifetime was highly unlikely. He was so cold and vacant, he might as well have died, Hermione couldn't help but think. Luna displaced much of the same detachment as Ron, though her conviction to magic was slightly more than non-existent. She'd broken her wand at her father's funeral—who died in the Final Battle—and swore to never use magic again. The only time she ever even acknowledged it was for travel purposes only, and that was only when no other alternative was possible. She was currently the owner of a rather successful dress shop, of all things, in the heart of a small suburb of London.
Hermione, squeezing past a ragged-looking old witch, never thought of her transformation over the past nine years. She knew how different she was, how her friends—the ones still sane enough to converse normally with each other—talked about her. They were only concerned, she knew that, but she would rather not the focus be on her.
After what felt like eons, she ducked into the shop she'd been looking for: Obscurus Books. She preferred this book store now as oppose to Flourish and Blotts due to the lack of crowding clientele. She found a good book tucked in a back shelf, obviously untouched for years, and settled into a comfortable chair before the equally untouched fireplace. Ginny usually accompanied her here, only out of protection, Ron sometimes tagging along to research magic ravenously. It had taken all of her verbal combat skills to be able to leave the flat alone. She didn't doubt that at least one of them was in Diagon Alley, watching over her. She thanked them for their distance, praying they would keep it.
She was just feeling content, the book a rare and compelling find—she would definitely purchase it, whether she finished it right there or not—when a looming figure cast a shadow over her. "Harry, you didn't need to follow—" But when her eyes found the owner of the shadow, her words fell to the floor along with her book.
"That's mine," came the familiar voice, only vaguely more humble now.
"What's yours?" she hissed, hiding none of her malice for her former classmate, and present and eternal enemy.
"The book," he answered without pause, pointing at the forgotten piece of literature on the floor, its dusty and warped cover open to the title page. "It belongs to my family."
"Not since the war." She found it difficult to both hold his gaze and keep herself from shaking with anger. "The Ministry confiscated everything. How's life as a peasant, Malfoy?"
"Surprisingly bearable," he laughed with a chilling smirk. He bent down to retrieve the book. Hermione nearly lunged at him, hell-bent on taking it back from him, when he extended his arm carefully—she took note of his caution with her—and handed her the book. "I don't need a mansion to know my place in the world."
"No, a nice cell at Azkaban would have done much better," she spat, clutching the book protectively to her chest.
"Still bitter that I escaped a sentence?"
"No," she answered honestly. "Only that you persuaded the Wizengamot that you could have ever changed an ounce."
"For someone who's lost as much as I have," he said, stifling his obvious annoyance, "I would expect a little more understanding."
"Yes," she sneered. "Parting with all those dark artifacts must keep you awake sobbing every night. Sod off, Malfoy. I came here to get away from people like you."
"You think I give a damn about that useless junk?" Now his voice was finally showing was he felt, his fists clenched beneath his long sleeves. "I proved myself at my trial six months ago." He was nearly yelling now; Hermione wondered why the shopkeeper had yet to demand he leave. "I don't need to prove myself to you."
He stormed out of the shop, knocking over a stack of precariously placed books in his wake.
"How did it go?" Harry asked, scratching his wrist where his skin met with the uncomfortable-looking off-colored fake hand. Ironically, the hand he'd lost several years back—long before he finally defeated Voldemort—was the same as Wormtail's, his right. Harry often expressed his wordless irritation at the offending appendage, but never complained. He could have been a lot worse.
"I'm still alive, aren't I?" Hermione countered a little too brusquely, her trembling hands causing her cup of tea to rattle on its saucer. Harry reached across the table and took her hand.
"I know this is difficult for you—"
"You have no idea."
"I wouldn't have asked unless I was certain it would work, Hermione. Please, you have to trust me. I would never—"
"I know you only have good intensions, Harry," she reasoned, slipping her hand from under his. "But I still can't forgive you for putting this on me. I…I'm sorry, Harry. Please leave. I'll owl you in a few days."
Five Months Earlier:
Since her last encounter with Malfoy, Hermione had been determined to figure out just what made him so sure of himself with the Ministry. She had been absent from his trial, as she had from many of which she housed a considerable amount of malice for the accused. Of course she hated all who had fought on the dark side, though there were some, like Malfoy, who she couldn't even bring herself to think of, their history too painful to bring to the forefront of her mind.
She had managed—through several failed attempts and a careful web of ingenious persuasion—to gain access to confidential Ministry files. She found Malfoy's court proceedings quickly enough, tucking them into her robes and hurrying back to her flat before anyone realized what she'd taken; the agreement had been that she could look at the information only if she did so at the Ministry.
For almost a week she had been living on her own, a tough, yet welcome alteration from her former residence. She curled herself in her favorite chair, one she'd taken from her parents' home long ago, and buried herself in the file.
Harry showed up at her flat only ten minutes later, looking dejected and apologetic.
"I have to take that," he sighed, holding out his false hand. "I'm sorry, Hermione. Scrimgeour wants you to come with me, too."
She handed over the file with a surprising show of grace.
"Before we go, do you want to tell me what's going on?" His voice held nothing but concern, and yet she found it hard not to want to slap him across the face. "First you move out of the flat, and now you've let yourself become as obsessed as Ron. Figuring out Malfoy isn't going to make anything easier, Hermione."
"He hasn't changed, Harry," she said with a cool and steady voice. He would have taken her for normal had there not been an intense fire consuming her irises. "He fooled the Wizengamot. He evaded a well-deserved sentence at Azkaban. He's done so much evil, Harry, and he will be punished."
"And looking through his court file is going to make that happen?"
"There are holes here," she said with confidence, tapping the folder in Harry's hand. "And I will find them."
The next time he came to her flat, she decided casual dress was better, opting for a pair of comfortably worn jeans and a plain black long-sleeved tee-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few uncooperative strands hanging loose against her cheeks.
He arrived at quarter to seven, also wearing more relaxed clothing: black slacks and an unbuttoned slate gray dress shirt with a white tee-shirt underneath. He looked noticeably more relaxed, and hung his cloak up as if he lived there.
Before she could even say hello, he handed her a startling plant—at least she thought it was a plant—in a plain ceramic pot. It was about three inches tall, its stem a sickly mauve color. The top, where a flower might have been, sprouted a bulbous yellowish mass, streaked with black lines and open a bit at the top. When she peered inside she saw was could only be described as red yarn sitting in a pool of translucent ooze. It smelled unexpectedly lovely, however. She had never seen anything quite like it.
"It's called a Kindewvous," he explained. "It…" He stopped short with a sort of shrug. "If anyone ever threatens you around it, it will release those red tendrils inside and paralyzed the person temporarily."
"Why are you giving me this?" She couldn't help the question. His last visit had been decidedly interesting, but nothing that happened suggested he was concerned for her wellbeing. Maybe Harry was right, maybe this would work.
"It's weird. You're weird."
She didn't know whether he was insulting her or complimenting her, his eyes shifting from the plant to the floor with evident uneasiness. It had never crossed her mind that this would be hard for him too. She chose not to respond either way, and set the plant on the coffee table next to her picture.
After a pleasant dinner of roasted chicken and red wine, they retired to her living room with steaming cups of blueberry tea and biscuits.
It scared her—actually scared her—how easy their second dinner (because she refused to accept them as dates) was going. The first had been so stringent, so formal and stuffy, as if they were in a mandatory business meeting. Now, as they leaned back in relaxation on her sofa, she found his company almost soothing in a way her other friends could never be, no matter how imposing his character was. His mouth was still mostly contorted into a frown, however soft and pliable, yet beneath it hid a diffident smile he let loose—perhaps by accident—every so often.
A sharp tightening in her gut caused her to look away suddenly, a heavy guilt solidifying within her.
It was nearly midnight when he finally left. Hermione closed the door behind him, pressing her back against the thick wood, and let out a long overdue sigh. Her heart knocked against her ribcage, struggling to break free. She had little time to recover from his breath-stopping tenderness, for there was a hurried knock at the door. Thinking it was Ginny or Harry—who she had yet to contact since she'd confessed her anger—she checked her flushed face in the mirror, hoping they wouldn't notice, then opened the door.
"What—" But she barely got even that word out as he came forward, cupping her face in his hands so gently one might believe he thought her extremely fragile. His lips were softer than she'd imagined, fitting nicely against her own. As he deepened the kiss, he pulled her hard to him, one warm hand pressed on the small of her back.
When he stepped back his eyes were full of hunger and he was unable to keep from caressing her soft curls that had tumbled lose in his carnal actions.
"Be ready tomorrow night at six." It was not a request.
"Where—"
"Just be ready," he said, chancing another brief kiss before he left for good.
She waited a full minutes before Flooing to her old flat, where everyone still lived, no one showing signs of wanting to leave. She brushed past Harry, who attempted to gain her attention, heading straight for Luna's room at the end of the hall. For some reason she knew Luna was the one she needed to talk to.
Four Months Earlier:
Draco was in the café when Hermione walked in and, because she didn't want him to know his presence affected her so strongly, she continued on in, taking a seat alone at a table not too close yet not too far away. His cool gray eyes flicked up for an instant, taking note of her arrival, then dropped back to the newspaper he'd been reading, a sheet of white blond hair making a curtain over his face. He looked so much like his father now, though decidedly much softer in appearance, still childlike even, his cheeks retaining a youthful, if not attractive, plumpness that most lost in adulthood.
She ordered a cup of strong tea with honey and a plate of dry sugar-free biscuits. When the waitress had taken her order and left to fulfill it, Hermione pulled a book from her bag, propping it on the table before her. It was the same book she'd found in Obscurus Books two months before, its innards so phenomenally fascinating that she couldn't bear to part with it for more than a few hours.
"Did you figure out the trick cover?" came a voice over his book. She didn't need to look up to know it was him, or that he'd taken it upon himself to join her at her table.
"Good afternoon, Draco," she said, her tone holding only a ghost of the malevolence it usually did. She didn't dare admit it, or even think it, but she felt sort of guilty for prying into Malfoy's personal business.
"I take that as a no." Without asking, he took the book from her and, before she could demand he give it back, he slid his thumb along the crease at the very center of the pages, then pressed hard at the side of the pages at he bottom—to her amazement the simple-looking book gave a sort of sputter and, when Malfoy opened it to the cover page, a small compartment was open, its inside empty. He then closed the book and, with a tap on the center of the cover, it gave another sputter and he handed it back to her. "There."
"Thanks," she said hesitantly, pulling the book to her chest subconsciously.
"I was wondering," he said, his voice sounding hauntingly sincere; she caught his eyes to try to decipher his motives, "if you could help me with something." His face was still hard and withdrawn, his back straight and proper like any well-breed wizard of high society. He looked like the same old Draco, the same bully from her school days, a Death Eater and a liar. Yet something was profoundly different, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.
"What?" she asked out of pure curiosity.
He leaned in, his face very close to hers, and whispered, "I still have very many books at my flat that the Ministry should have confiscated months ago. I don't want them to find them and sell them to book shops, to strangers."
"What are you saying?" He couldn't possibly—
"Take them," he said, confirming her assumptions. "At least then I'll know they're being put to use and not stuck on a dusty shelf until the end of time."
"And what makes you think I would do such a thing? I could lose my job, Malfoy."
He leveled her gaze and sat back; she let of a silent breath, thanking Merlin that he'd done so.
"Because I know how much you want what I have. Look—" He slide a folded piece of parchment across the table to her. "—that's my address. Come by my flat tonight around eight and take a look at my books. If you still say no then fine, turn me over to the Ministry. Alright?"
She stared long and hard at him, as if she would somehow trick him into dropping his guard and showing her what was really going on. After a few moments a silence she said, "Why do you care about a bunch of old books?"
"They're all I have," he said with such honesty that she couldn't have not believed him, no matter how hard she wanted to.
"If I take them you won't have them anymore," she pointed out.
"Maybe so," he said with a wave of his hand. "But, like I said, they'll be used."
"Alright, Malfoy," she sighed. "But if I notify the Ministry don't hold it against me."
He laughed and nodded, slipping out of his chair just as the waitress brought her tea and cookies.
Hermione chased her glass of wine with another, allowing the near-violent but much appreciated chill to run through her veins as the bitter liquid worked its magic. She knew he was staring at her, knew his one eyebrow was quirked up slightly in wonder at her behavior. Around them the restaurant bustled with activity; they blended in easily, though every now and then a witch or wizard would recognize them and take a second look to ensure their eyes were working properly.
She ordered a large salad, her appetite having shrunk slowly throughout the day as six o'clock approached. He decided on the venison, asking to have it served rare.
"Good wine?" he chuckled, lifting the bottle from its ice bucket by the clothe around its middle. He poured her another glass, then one for himself.
"Very," she murmured, her voice small and cautious. The past two times they'd seen each other was at her apartment, where she could easily fool herself into thinking they weren't on a date, weren't getting to know one another little by little. But here, at the priciest restaurant she'd ever been to, there was no question in either of their minds what this was. And though she'd known it as she readied herself earlier—she wore a stunning rose-colored silk dress that dropped off the shoulders, giving anyone who cared to look a generous view of the diamond necklace her grandmother had left her when she died—being in such a public place made it final.
She wanted to run and get as far from there as she could, only her body felt so heavy, both with drink and anxiety, that an escape was impossible.
"Are you going to say it or should I?"
She looked up, her lips touching the edge of her glass. She set it on the table and sent him a questioning look.
"As far as I'm concerned," he continued, sounding very formal and well-mannered (Could have fooled me, she thought bitterly), "this is our third date. Now we both know that no one living or dead would have thought such a thing possible, but it's happening so we might as well confront it."
"And by confront you mean?"
"I want to know if this is going to continue or not," he said bluntly. "I don't like to waste my time."
"You're not wasting your time," she forced out, hoping he wouldn't notice.
"Good." He smiled and lifted his glass, offering her a cheers. Not knowing what else to do, she obliged.
She walked as normally as possible, trying to appear to the world as though she weren't about to burst at the seams. She was headed for Draco Malfoy's flat, tucked in a small corner of downtown London, a neighborhood of more than ninety percent wizards. As she made her way, winding in and out of other people's way, she couldn't help but mentally prepare herself for what was to come. Was he setting her up? She didn't truly believe so, but there was always a chance. And then there was that afternoon, in the café. He'd been genuinely civil with her, nice even. Perhaps he had changed significantly; perhaps his loyalties really were with them and he could be trusted. He, of course, had a long way to go to earn her trust. But he did have a start.
It was a few minutes to eight when she arrived at his building. She was glad now that she'd decided to walk most of the way—it did good to clear her head before going into the snake pit.
Malfoy opened the door before she had a chance to knock, glancing back and forth in the hall as though he suspected she'd been followed. When he was satisfied, he tugged her unceremoniously inside, nearly slamming the door behind her.
"What the bloody—"
"I told you the Ministry wants my books," he said sharply, eyeing her with something like suspicion, as if she'd brought a brigade of Ministry workers with her.
"And I told you I wouldn't say a thing until I saw them," she shot back, pushing past him, maybe a little too roughly. But then, she couldn't control herself—she was in Draco Malfoy's apartment for Merlin's sake! And not only that, but she was there to do him a favor. Granted it was selfish; she wanted to see the books more than anything, especially after how outstanding the first turned out to be. "Where are they?"
He ground his teeth at her, but said nothing and motioned for her to follow. They walked through several rooms—she wondered just how big his flat was and how much money he made, for the Ministry had taken most of it as well along with his possessions—until finally coming to a door that was spell-locked at the end of a corridor. He unlocked it silently, ushering her inside ahead of him.
Hermione nearly choked on her own breath. The room was enormous, obviously altered to fit inside the building, though it was easily as big as his whole flat. The walls were lined with shelves, stretching from floor to ceiling, and covered every inch by books or varying sizes, colors, textures, and ages. And even with the massive size of the room, the shelves were unable to house all of the treasures, and books were piled it neat stacks all around the rest of the room, creating a maze of sorts from back to front. At the far end of the room was a single window, high up—she greatly suspected that from the outside the room would appear as a closet or something of the like.
"How did you keep all this from the Ministry?" she asked, breathless, barely touching the cover of the closest book on the top of a stack in front of her.
"Magic," he said, laughing at his own joke. "They'll find it soon enough, though." And there was no mistaking the anger and sadness in his voice. "Which is why you have to take them."
"And where am I going to put all of these books, Malfoy?" Suddenly she was irrationally angry at him, turning sharply on her heel. "I'm in just as much trouble as you are if they find them. Half of these books are for dark magic. They'll never believe that I purchased them."
"If they do find them, which I doubt they will—what's the Ministry going to search your flat for?—then tell them they're for a better understanding of dark magic so to combat it easier."
Hermione frowned deeply at him.
"Is that the load of rubbish you fed the courts?"
"Just look at the damn books, Granger," he groaned, turning towards the door. "I'll be back in a few hours. If you still want to turn me in, fine." He slipped from the room before she had a chance to respond.
His kisses were addicting in the worst way, making hot streaks down her skin, his teeth nipping at her flesh in all the right spots. They were lying on her sofa, very much clothed still, their hands searching wildly for a hundred different places to be.
Hermione tried not to think about it, tried not to let who he was cloud her mind. There was a reason for all this, and nothing could stop her. She was right, she had the proof of his dishonorable deeds since the end of the war—secret meetings, secret plots—all that was left was to catch him off guard.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, lifting his head.
"What?" Her voice too was husky, and she propped herself on her elbows.
"I have to go." He kissed her passionately on the lips once more, then stood and straightened out his clothes. She climbed to her feet and made herself look presentable too. "Same time tomorrow night?" he asked with a smirk, snaking his arm around her waist.
"Definitely."
The minute he was gone she sent an owl to Harry, knowing he would receive it within the hour and come immediately. She'd been avoiding him for far too long—they needed to talk.
Three Months Earlier:
Hermione sat, legs crossed, on the floor of her new library. Like Malfoy, she'd magicked a closet in her flat to accommodate for the extensive amount of literature. For the past month, whenever she wasn't at work, she spent most of her time reading through his books, engrossed completely in every word she read. She hadn't seen Malfoy since the day she agreed to accept his illegal store—the pull of knowledge was simply too great—and she didn't plan on seeing him any time soon.
Setting down a very old leather-bound volume, she stood and stretched her limbs, her stomach snarling at her, begging to be fed. She was just about to leave, when a strange book caught her eye. It looked very different from the rest—flat and square, its cover painted with real gold and displaying the word "Malfoy" in sprawling text. She lifted it carefully off the shelf, recognizing it now for a photo album.
It troubled her to think that he would forget such a thing; it troubled her even more if he had not, and wanted her to have it for some reason. With tentative fingers, she opened the album to the first page. It was blank, save for the family name again, this time in harsh black letters. She thumbed through the pages, most of the images what she expected to see: staged portraits of various family members, most of which didn't smile, and all looking very proper and important. Towards the end, however, she made a startling find. While most of the album had been pictures of family members many generations back, none of them of the current Malfoys, the last few pages were devoted entirely to Draco Malfoy's immediate family and, startlingly enough, they appeared almost normal, smiling even. But, without a doubt, the image that made her skin crawl the most was one of Narcissa Malfoy and a very young Draco, who sat before an enormous stack of gifts. The caption beneath it read: Our Baby Boy, Age 3. Narcissa was beaming with pride, hugging her son who grinning childishly at the camera. It was so normal, so nice, it made her want to chuck the offending album across the room. She refrained, however, and slipped the picture from its place, turning it over for a date. There was one, June 5, 1983.
Hermione counted in her head and realized that today was May 5th. She quickly put the album back in order, then hurried out of the room.
Harry Flooed into her living room twenty minutes after she'd sent the owl, his face covered with soot.
"Sorry," she said, trying to suppress a giggle. He looked ridiculous. "I haven't cleaned my fireplace in awhile."
"What's going on?" he asked, getting to business immediately. He was so adamant about being back in her good graces that he didn't even notice how dirty he was.
"Last night Ginny told me the information you'd found. I read through everything, but I still needed to see him once more before I made a move."
"Then he was here tonight?" Harry's brow furrowed. He hated the fact that such a low life was spending semi-intimate time with his best friend—though he had no idea how intimate, even if they hadn't had sex, because Hermione would never let it go that far—but it seemed to be the only way. When the opportunity presented itself it was too good to pass up.
"Yes, and I think I have a plan."
Two Months Earlier:
The street was deathly quiet, only the gentle hum of crickets floating through the air. Hermione jogged lightly across the street, then slowed to a walk as she approached the building. Many of the lights in windows were still on, including the one she sought. Taking a deep breath, she went inside, still unsure of exactly why she was doing this.
"Who is it?" demanded a voice on the other side of the door.
"Me," she answer. "Hermio—"
The door swung open before she could finish. Malfoy eyed her for a moment, then stepped aside so she could come in.
"What are you doing here?" He hadn't bothered to shut the door; she took this to mean that he wasn't inviting her to stay long.
"I just came by to give you this." She handed him a square package in brown paper. He took it almost timidly, running his hands over the crumpled paper, but not opening it.
"What is it?"
"Something you'll want," she assured him. She walked back out into the hall, closing the door behind her.
Malfoy turned the package over in his eyes, knowing by its weight and shape that it was a book. He also knew why she was giving it to him: today was his birthday. Though, for the life of him, he didn't understand why she would want to give him a birthday present.
After much debate, he finally tore off the paper, stunned at what he saw.
"How did she know?" he asked aloud to no one.
In his hands he held his favorite book, the one he'd been the most desperate to keep from the Ministry. Its worn green cover under his fingers made him feel whole. When he opened it to the first page, a small slip of parchment fell out. He bent down and picked it up, even more startled by what it said than the book itself:
I thought you'd like to have this. Don't worry, I put a charm on it so the Ministry won't ever find it. Happy Birthday, Draco.
"Hermione, I think I'm falling for you."
She spit out her wine before she could control herself.
"And don't say it's too soon," he continued, taking her hand. "I thought about it all week. I don't want to keep dating you. I want you to be my girlfriend."
Carefully she set her glass on the table.
"We've only been dating for a month," she said, not knowing how else to respond.
"I told you not to say it's too soon," he laughed, leaning in to kiss her. She backed away, however, and narrowed her eyes.
"Let's take a walk," she said, standing up.
"Hermione—"
"Please." She smiled innocently at him and he sighed. "I want to show you something."
"Very well. But when we get back, we're talking about this, alright?"
"Of course."
One Month Earlier:
She was bewildered, to say the least, when Malfoy showed up at her flat in the pouring rain one evening, his face contorted with a mixture of indecipherable emotions. He traipsed into her living room without asking, not bothering to remove his cloak or boots.
When she asked what he was doing there, he said, "Make some tea," and sat down heavily on her couch.
"Draco, tell me—"
But the look in his eyes cut her off immediately and she nodded, disappearing for a few minutes into the kitchen. She returned with two cups of steaming tea, placing one in front of him as she sat next to him.
"Why did you give me that damn book?" he demanded, ignoring the tea he'd asked for.
She wasn't surprised by the question, only that it'd taken him this long to ask her.
"It was your birthday," she tried.
"Bull shit," he hissed, rounding on and gnashing his teeth. "What the hell is going on?"
"To tell you the truth," she sighed, "I have no idea."
He measured her words, looking her directly in the eye, then nodded, and finally picked up his cup. He drained it, frowning as he spit out the dregs, then leaned back.
"A lot has changed since the war," he began, his voice steady and determined. It sounded as though he'd been practicing this speech for quite awhile. "A lot of people have changed…I know you don't believe that I am one of those people."
She was about to protest, when he touched her knee. It was only for an instant, such a brief moment that she wondered if she'd imagined it. His face tightened as if this were the most difficult thing he'd ever done. And then he said the last thing she ever expected.
"Granger—" She was only able to overlook how he addressed her with what came next. "—have dinner with me."
She didn't even notice that she'd dropped her tea all over the rug.
It was an ambush as they exited her flat, twenty Aurors, including Harry and Ron, surrounding them. Hermione stepped away from him, joining her friends, her wand pointed out.
"What the hell!" he cried, raging ballooning in his chest. "What's going on!"
"What does it look like?" Hermione sneered, finally able to show him how she really felt. "You're under arrest. Hand over your wand or I'll have to force it from you."
"How could you!" he yelled, raising his wand. "I trusted you!" He was able to call out a curse, when Harry headed him off, stunning him to the ground. His wand fell in the grass a second later.
"Yes, well," Hermione sighed, snatching up his wand. "I never trusted you, Blaise."
They escorted Blaise Zabini to the Ministry of Magic, taking him to a holding room to await his second trial. But they had so much evidence against him that there was no question in anyone's mind that he was going straight to Azkaban.
"I can't believe we pulled it off," Hermione said, as she and Harry and Ron walked down the hall towards the atrium.
"You did all the work," Harry pointed out, taking her hand. "I hope it was worth it."
"To get a slimball like that behind bars, you beat your ass it was Harry Potter."
"Want to come over and celebrate?"
She was about to say yes, when a force tugged at her. She shook her head and released Harry's hand.
"I have something to do first," she said. "I'll come by later, alright?"
They looked at with questioningly, but agreed nonetheless. After all, without her they wouldn't have triumphed today.
"What do you want?" Malfoy groaned when he saw it was her on the other side of the door.
"We arrested Blaise Zabini tonight," she answered.
"Brilliant," he said monotone, unimpressed. "I always wondered how he escaped a sentence the first time."
"Draco, he's the reason I've been so busy this past month."
He rolled his eyes and went to shut the door. She stopped him, pushing herself inside, causing him to stumble back to avoid contact.
"He's also the reason," she continued, "that I refused your offer of a date."
"Whatever, Granger. Will you leave now? I'm busy."
She turned to go, defeated, but at the last minute turned back. It happened so fast he couldn't have stopped her, her hands in his soft blond hair, his lips warm and inviting. He pulled her inside, deepening the kiss with such intense passion Hermione felt her entire body go weak. When she pulled away she was breathless, but smiling.
"Come to my flat tomorrow night at seven," she said, biting her lip. "I'll make dinner."
Not much to say.
REVIEW!